


Alternate Views

by goldbooksblack



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 01:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13753278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldbooksblack/pseuds/goldbooksblack
Summary: And what did Hellas and Anneith think of their scions? Were they proud, confused, or just plain angry?





	Alternate Views

**Author's Note:**

> This story is largely based on [this post](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/post/170438062167/hellas-and-anneith-in-eos), which I posted on my Tumblr about three weeks back. Check it out if you're interested! It is also partially based on my fic "Lady of the Cliffs," which can be found on Ao3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12557864/chapters/30302466) and on Tumblr [here](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/post/168022998732/lady-of-the-cliffs-masterlist).
> 
> This fic borrows LARGELY from Sarah J. Maas's Empire of Storms. Any dialogue in the latter half of the story is copied to verbatim, or at least near-verbatim. All plot points in the same half are also from the Throne of Glass series (although not verbatim). Thus, any work that you may recognize is probably hers and should be credited to her. Half of this is not my original work, and I hope that this disclaimer accurately reflects that.
> 
> Additionally, I have to apologize for the unevenness of some of the language. I originally had this written in present tense (in fact, a good third or half of the story was entirely in third-person present) until I realized that some things are too difficult to be written as such and switched to third-person past. That should explains the strange scrappy sentences and if a stray present tense verb happened to slip through the cracks.

Elide Lochan was five years old when she first felt Anneith at her shoulder.

She was an inquisitive child, who crawled everywhere and inspected her toys as if she could see beyond them. She was _that_ child, the one who sought company but rejected it as well, the one who preferred the rays of sunlight streaming in through the windows rather than being outside. Unfortunately for her parents, she was also as quiet as the night. Which meant that Marion and Cal had to pull her away from eating dust and trying to climb up onto high tables multiple times.

“She probably gets it from me,” said Cal one night when they were in bed, apologetically. “I ate a lot of bugs when I was younger.”

Marion curled into her husband. “Eww. But I don’t think so. Elide is . . . different.”

It was during one of these “different” sessions that the goddess’s influence appeared.

Elide had been running through the yard, carefree and wild. Marion had fallen behind somewhere, still keeping a watchful eye on her daughter but simply too exhausted to keep up. Five years old, and Marion could already tell that her daughter was no ordinary child.

The girl giggled to herself as she jumped around in the soft grass, squealing at the blades tickling her toes and reaching her arms up to the sky, as if she could squeeze the puffy clouds in her plump fingers. It was spring; the flowers were blooming everywhere, scarlets and magentas and deep violets that clamored for Elide’s attention. However, she was no fool: she headed directly for the gigantic golden flower that bloomed in the corner. Only the best for her.

A voice at the back of her mind pushed her on, a soft, amused whisper of _“Observe.”_

It was quite unassuming at first, tucked into a darkened edge of the garden. But as the girl approached, the flower seemed to turn a little towards her, as if it beckoned her. Elide tiptoed closer, wary but unafraid—and was rewarded with a rare sight.

The flower was dotted with tiny creatures, tinier than Elide had ever seen. And in the back of her mind, the word clicked: nymphs. The Little Folk who lived among nature. She knelt and watched, mesmerized, as they played, paying no attention to her. Chasing each other around, quiet noises of glee.

Elide’s heart bursted with warmth, and she picked herself up and ran back to her mother. Panting, she planted herself directly in front of Marion, who was sitting on a picnic blanket. “Mama, Mama!”

Marion smiled indulgently at her daughter, wrapping her arms around the girl and gently bringing her onto her lap. “What is it, Elide?”

Elide snuggled close to her mother, despite the hot summer’s day. “I saw—I saw— _fairies_!”

“Really?” Marion gasped. She poked her daughter in the waist, and the girl giggled. “You are so lucky! They only appear to people they really really like.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She tugged on Marion’s dress. “Do you want to see them too, Mama?”

Marion shook her head. “I don’t think they’d appear to me, Elide.”

“Why not?”

“Well . . . they’re very private. Remember what  I told you? You’re extremely lucky you were able to see them.”

Elide looked troubled. “But I _want_ you to see them, Mama.”

If her daughter hadn’t looked genuinely upset, Marion might have laughed. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I don’t need to see them. It’s your memory. Hold it in your heart. I won’t always be with you to see things like that.”

Elide squirmed in her arms. “But I want you to be with me forever, Mama.”

Marion looked down at her daughter. Five years old, and already hyper-aware of things. And, dare she say it, a great beauty too, with her huge dark eyes and smooth face. But what she was most proud of was her daughter’s kindness, her effervescence. She said a silent prayer to the Goddess to protect her baby, to look after her. She’s not sure why, but—

Well. Better to not dwell on such things. Instead, she turned to Elide, who was still looking up at her pleadingly. “I think I hear Papa calling us. How about we go inside and eat some cookies? And then we can read that book you got from Aunt Evalin for your birthday.”

Her daughter beamed. “Okay!”

Marion gave her a little nudge. “You go first. I’ll clean up.”

Elide grinned and took off running towards the castle, her arms windmilling in joy.

Her mother looked after her, smiling.

 

~*~

 

In a separate world, a young female, with dark eyes and hair to match Elide’s, turned away from the sight, a fluttering in her heart.

 

~*~

 

Lorcan never knew his father.

He barely remembered his mother, who waited a mere three months before abandoning him on the steps of Farnor’s temple. No plea to take care of her son, nothing. Just a note with his name. _Lorcan Salvaterre._

The priests and priestesses had no idea what to do with him, and it was clear to all who witnessed their dilemma that they did not want him, either. He ended up in the orphanage, surrounded by walls of bland and black growing up, the wails of children still ringing in his ears.

But, by all standards, he grew up a strange male. For all the lack of love from the orphanage workers, he did not seem to care. The other children had whimpered at the sight of the workers who approached them, whether to punish or to serve food. But Lorcan merely stared at them until _they_ were the ones hurrying to get away.

Despite these uneasy circumstances, however, it was not until Lorcan is fifteen that there was a real situation.

A new group of boys moved into the orphanage; Fae, just from the looks of them. And already well-acquainted with each other. There were about five, all tall with the beginnings of muscle, about eighteen. Nearly emancipated, and cocky as all hell.

They set their sights on the orphanage like any other, already having been bounced around from shelter to shelter to no avail. And why not, they mused, have some fun before they leave forever? And so they decided, unanimously: that kid. That strange, creepy, gangly one.

It was a dark night, in one of the alleys of Doranelle. Lorcan was walking back to the orphanage, kicking a pebble down the cobbled road. It had been another unsuccessful day, with almost less money than he started with, working in the market. The pebble clacked against the uneven road, echoing down the dark pathway. He did not hear what was about to transpire.

“Hey, you! Salvaterre!”

Lorcan turned, just in time for the lead male’s foot to collide with his face. He stumbled back a little, caught unawares. The males around him laughed as he climbed to his feet again. But all of a sudden, all of them are upon him, kicking and punching, shouting and jeering. At the end of it, Lorcan was bruised and bloodied, something not quite right in his chest. Or his arm. Or his leg. He scrabbled to stand, panting.

“Aww,” chortled another male, who stepped up to sneer at Lorcan. “You wanna fight?” He spat in his face before turning back to his friends, laughing.

Big mistake.

The male knew something was wrong when suddenly, one of the boys at the back of the group paled. Paled to an extent that was almost impossible for a living being. And one by one, the males went white.

The male began to feel as if something was creeping up on him, but he decided to handle it the only way he felt he could: with anger. “What?” He shouted. “What? What is wrong with you—” he turned, and his breath choked.

It was not as if Lorcan had become bigger, or stronger, out of the blue. No, that was not it. Any less observant person could have walked by and seen no difference; just the same thin boy outnumbered, five to one.

But the air was thick, and cold. Doranelle never got cold. Not in July.

The males did not even have time to react before Lorcan lashed at them. The air warped around them, dark and opaque, and the males’ screams were choked out, dead silent to the rest of the world.

Lorcan walked out of the alleyway alone.

 

~*~

 

His wife only looked irritated at him. “Really?”

He turned to her. “No? Too soon?”

She merely sighed, and picked up her pen again, to jot something down, and he felt almost a mild sense of inadequacy. She was young yet, much younger than him, but she was wiser, more worldly. He knelt beside her chair, tall enough that he was able to wrap his arms around her waist and plant a kiss on her wrist. She swatted at him. “Hellas!”

He smiled into her skin. “Anneith.”

She rolled her eyes and slipped an answering arm around his shoulders. They sat like that, for a

moment, before the goddess sighed.

“Make sure you know what you’re doing with him.”

 

~*~

 

_Perranth is on fire._

Elide gasped awake, rubbing at her eyes. Her chest was heaving, as if she had been breathing in smoke, something burning underneath her nose—

“Elide!”

She froze as her father burst into her room. “Papa?”

Her father merely hushed her, and tugged her into his arms. They raced down the stairs, Elide feeling light-headed as she bounced against Cal’s arms. But she clung on, silent.

Perranth was burning. The thick scent of smoke threatened to choke her, but the flames that she glimpsed outside when they had passed a window was more frightening. The beautiful fields that she had played in, the hours spent outside with her parents picking flowers and having picnics—

Those are gone.

She and her father burst out one of the hidden entrances of the castle. She shrunk away from the scarlet flames burning, ravaging, assaulting her home.

“Vernon!” her father roared over the howling of the flames. Her heart sank. No.

She had only met her uncle on a handful of occasions, when her father had invited him over to eat dinner with them, or at family gatherings. But those events were always short, and large enough that Elide did not have to interact with her uncle at all. And she knew that her parents disliked him as well; she heard enough of her mother’s arguments with her father about inviting Vernon to their home to know that he was not someone to be trusted.

A man emerged from an inlet in the flames, and Elide shivered, biting her lip to near blood to prevent herself from crying. He was just as awful as she remembered, face thin and angular to the point of cruelty, with dead, dead eyes.

“Vernon,” her father panted. “I will be back. Please, just—”

“—say no more. She is in good hands.”

There was a dull ringing in the back of her mind. Was it her? Then, before she could react, she was being passed from her father’s safe arms to those of this stranger. She twisted, crying out. “Papa!”

Cal bent to plant a soft kiss on his daughter’s forehead. “I will be back, alright, Elide? I promise. Just stay with your Uncle Vernon, he’ll take care of you. And—” the last part was choked, and it was how Elide knew that Cal was lying. That he could not promise. “—I love you.”

She began to weep as Cal rode away, disappearing in a cloud of smoke and flame.

“Now,” mused her uncle. “What shall we do with you?”

 

~*~

 

He has known her for millennia, but he has never seen his wife cry like this.

 

~*~

 

Sollomere was as good as gone.

They were hiding on the outskirts of the damned city, in the bushes like amateurs. Oh, if Fenrys could see them now. Lorcan growled to himself. Not that he has ever let Fenrys’s quicksilver tongue bother him.

His second spared a glance at him. “The entire city?”

Whitethorn was a pain in his ass, but a good second. Better him than Gavriel. Too soft.

Lorcan peered at the city again, its rough gray buildings cutting into the skyline at jagged angles. “I believe that was what Maeve told us.”

“Maeve.” The name was half a question, half a condemnation on the prince’s lips.

Lorcan turned to look at him, fully. “Are you questioning our queen?”

Whitethorn stared right back at him, pine green eyes boring into his. “No.”

“Good.” Lorcan turned back to the city, and grunted slightly. “On my mark.”

His second stepped away from the bushes, eyes fixated on Lorcan’s upright palm facing him.

“One.”

The wind began to pick up.

“Two.”

Clouds gathered high in the sky, and slowly, carefully, it darkened.

“Three.”

Cataclysm.

Despite his age, despite both of their ages, Lorcan had never done anything on this scale before. Sollomere was a _city_ , not a mere town or an organization. There were people, and families, and—

The ice was loud, screaming over the screams of the citizens, but the darkness was deafening. And he watched, mesmerized, as his darkness and Whitethorn’s ice twisted together, a lethal arrow towards the city.

And when the noise faded, and the rubble settled, Sollomere was gone.

Whitethorn went out for drinks with the Lion directly after they returned to Doranelle, and Lorcan nearly rolled his eyes at the flash of remorse in the Fae warrior’s eyes. He would get over it in the morning, after two ales and a pretty female. He was sure of it.

As for Lorcan himself, he cleaned himself off. It was just another day.

 

~*~

 

He had never let himself go so much as he had in helping Lorcan. His power purred at every use, every battle, and he might have been the god of death, but Lorcan was death incarnate.

 

~*~

 

Magic was gone.

Elide was unsure of how to comprehend those words, whispered around the tower by even the lowest of the maids. Finnula had told her, but only after much pestering. And only in the most hushed of tones. “Don’t repeat any of what I tell you,” she warned.

Elide nodded. And knew better than to inquire further.

She grew up, slowly. According to her nursemaid, she was beautiful, as beautiful as her mother and father were. But with a shattered ankle, no one would ever want her. Not even the servants. After all, you needed two good legs to run errands.

That didn’t stop her uncle from throwing her into pits, and fields, and dungeons. To slave away.

Her dreams were haunted by the faces of her mother and father, the burned fields of Perranth. The awful bodies of her parents she saw in her mind, pieced together by the gossip around her. Her mother, lying prostrate on the ground, drowned in her own blood. Her father’s head, severed off of his neck, rolling across the grass to land at her uncle’s feet. Even the Galathyniuses made appearances occasionally. Short-tempered but gentle Crown Prince Rhoe and kind, clever Princess Evalin, tangled in their own bloodied sheets. And Aelin Galathynius, barely older than her by a year, lost to the rushing waters of the Florine River.

Finnula claimed that she was blessed by the goddess Anneith herself, but for all of her dreams, Elide could not let herself believe it. The voice at the back of her head had been quiet for years, and all of her half-hearted prayers to the Lady of Wise Things had gone unnoticed. She had lived through too many tears, too much pain to pray anymore.

And when Vernon yanked her out of bed in the middle of the night, away from Finnula, away from the tower she had called home for ten years, she knew that no prayer would save her.

 

~*~

 

Anneith was tired.

Tired of being stuck in this world, sick and nauseous from watching the humans slaughter themselves in multitudes, so many that not even her husband could keep track of them all. And Elide . . .

Her ears ached from hearing the girl’s pleas, their evolution from hopeful to bitter.

 

~*~

 

Betrayal was not a word that applied to this.

Anger was more accurate.

Lorcan worked to contain his disbelief as he watched Whitethorn pick himself off of the ground and swear his allegiance to the fire-breathing bitch. A queen without a throne, a queen without people. Just like that.

His second, his most reliable killer, blindsided by love. Lorcan wanted to scoff and cry in utter incredulity at the same time. _Love_. Of all things, Rowan Whitethorn had let himself fall prey to love once more.

But enough of that. Enough of watching Whitethorn and the bitch queen walk out of the palace, heads held high. Enough of seeing the longing in the rest of the cadre’s eyes. If Whitethorn would not stand with them, he would stand against them.

And when he saw the threat they posed to his queen, he took his chance.

 

~*~

 

In the shadows, Hellas shook his head. Not even he could control this.

 

~*~

 

Elide was running. Running for her life.

At first, the cool air on her face seemed a blessing, a gift from the gods after Morath. Even if she was being chased. But now, she had run and starved and scavenged to the brink of death. She was tired, hungry, and afraid. She would do anything for peace: even if it meant offering her soul to Hellas for it.

Meeting Manon had been a blessing, to finally escape, but now she was not so certain she would honor the witch’s . . . friendship? Mentorship? Elide stumbled to the edge of the river, hands shaking as she refilled her canteen. She stifled a desperate cry as she dropped the cap into the waters, fumbling for it.

And then the howl sounded out.

Her head snapped up as she forgot everything, the rushing water, the canteen cap. Only the slimy whispers of worse-than monsters, of nights spent lying awake in bed because of those howls. It now became less about surviving and just about _getting the hell away_. But as she stared around wildly for a shelter, she locked eyes with the figure crouched across the stream.

_Your hunter._

Was it just her, or did the supposed voice of her divine guide sound . . . pleased?

“Unless you want to be lunch, girl, I suggest you come with me.”

Unluckily for Anneith, Elide was not so easily swayed. “Who are you?” Her voice was dry and hoarse from disuse as she steeled herself against the male’s cold gaze.

She tried—and failed—to keep the surprise and fear out of her eyes as the warrior stood to his full height, a solid two feet taller than her small frame. “If you want to die, then go ahead: keep asking questions.” He turned away, disregarding her.

Elide stifled a startled gasp as the howling began anew. Behind her. And also directly where the male was now facing.

“East or west?” The male demanded, and Elide watched as he gripped his hatchet in his hand.

“East.” Elide could feel her eyes darting wildly as she spoke. “I—I was told to stay out of the mountains. Wyverns—large, winged beasts—patrol them.”

“I know what a wyvern is.”

A brief flare of anger bubbled up inside of her. Judgement. The first emotion she had come into contact with since leaving her captors. Of course. But instinct overtook that and she backed away. Towards the East. And then the howling morphed into screeching. She locked eyes with the warrior. “Run.”

She obeyed.

Her ankle screamed as she careened towards the knoll, but a superhuman strength had overtaken her. All she knew was to flee. And a prayer to Anneith, for luck.

Elide struggled to control her breathing as she reached the zenith, Lorcan close behind her. His eyes ran over her, assessing. Her foot slipped out from under her, and she remembered that she had no time to rest. She took off again, running down—

—and whipping back. That power—whatever had just transpired behind her—from the male—the darkness—she could barely form coherent thoughts. But she turned just in time to see darkness, pure darkness, roll off the back of the male. And something deep inside her shuddered.

In delight.

She stifled a cry as a sharp pain tore through her foot. But kept running.

Behind her, she could feel the dark power growing. Whatever it was that this warrior had, it was no match for the ilken. At least, that was what she told herself.

She had been so focused on what was behind her that she could not control her scream when darkness dropped from the sky.

“There you are. Come with me, girl, and I will grant you a quick end.” The ilken bared its monstrous teeth at her, in an expression of forced sympathy or intimidation, she did not know.

Liar. They would never let her go free. Not even as a breeder—although she would kill herself before that happened. She needed help. She would never escape alone, never—

“Is your blood as sweet as your face, girl?”

She steeled herself against a shudder. _Think,_ she snarled at herself. What would—what would Manon do in this situation? But Manon had claws and fangs of her own, a weapon within herself.

 _But so do you,_ the voice at the back of her mind whispered. _Use what you have._

And so Elide Lochan forced herself to look up, into those dark, soulless eyes. “Careful.” She gripped the shard of dirtied stone that Kaltain Rompier had dug out of her own arm. For comfort—and she seemed to be right when the forest clearing seemed to reverberate. “Do you think the Dark King will be pleased if you harm me? I have been sent to look for the girl. Do not interfere.”

She did not even let herself breathe a sigh of relief that she was wearing witch leathers, or for her mother’s blood running through her veins. The ilken hesitated, scanning her with uncertainty. “Get out of my sight.”

The ilken stood still, although there was a flicker of doubt in its eyes. “Tell your brethren that if you interfere again, I will personally oversee what delights you experience upon Morath’s tables.” A chill went through her spine at her own words, memories of the witches in the dungeon flashing through her mind.

“Why did you flee our approach?”

“I do not tolerate the questions of underlings.” She kept her voice carefully bored but icy. “You have already disrupted my hunt and injured my ankle with your useless attack. Pray that I do not remember your face when I return to the Keep.”

“What a coincidence,” it said, and something in Elide turned lightning as she recognized her error. “That our prey is similarly lamed.”

Her mind was racing with prayers to Anneith. She couldn’t run; running would only get her killed faster.

Manon.

Manon would never stand for insubordination.

Elide forced herself to look at the creature once more, and growled, “What is that you’re hissing

about?”

The ilken backed away a step, but not enough.

“Do not make me reveal what His Dark Majesty put inside me on that table.”

The shard in her hand pulsed with dark delight.

Fear overtook the ilken’s eyes, at the thought of what had been done to this once-sweet maiden. What horrors had taken place in the dungeons of Morath to twist her into the monster she claimed to be. The ilken backed away, and Elide forced herself to sneer, walking away at a calculated pace.

A safe distance away, she fell to her knees and regurgitated. Relief—a sweet breeze—washed over her, and she paid no attention to the disgusting bile that was dripping from her mouth into the grass. Or of anyone’s approach.

Someone’s palm weighed down her shoulder, and she turned to find herself staring into the eyes of the male from the river. He was soaked in blood—black blood. “How?” She demanded.

“You first,” he hissed. A blade pressed against her throat, he continued, his granite face without mercy. “Why do you smell of one of them? Why do they chase you?”

 _No,_ the stone in her pocket seemed to plead. _Do not show him._

“Because I have spent the past several months in Morath,” she swallowed. “Living amongst that scent. They seek me because I managed to get free. I flee north—to safety.”

She watched as he lowered his blade—and sliced it across her arm. The scarlet liquid dripped down her moon-pale skin, and it seemed a good verification to him.

“You can call me Lorcan.”

 

~*~

 

“Do not,” Anneith said, throwing a sheathed dagger at her husband. “Say anything.”

Hellas was nearly bouncing around in glee as he caught the weapon easily. “I told you.”

She rolled her eyes, although her heart was still pounding. Elide had come so close, so painfully close to losing.

 

~*~

 

Lorcan was bored out of his wits.

Performing for drooling, fawning crowds basic sword tricks was not something that he was meant to do. Call him hot-headed, arrogant—but he was starting to doubt the validity of this circus plan. Still, just watching the crowds pour in was satisfying in itself. He wondered if they would still ooh and ahh if they had known that he could have decimated them in a matter of seconds.

A scent wafted under his nose, and his eyes snapped to the back of the crowd. He kept his face perfectly neutral as he saw Marion storm towards the crowd. Her hair was piled on top of her head in little curls and mountains, her face painted with heavy makeup. She dragged long robes on the ground, although their tight bust accentuated her chest. On anyone else, it would have looked childish and garish; on her, it was mesmerizing.

Lorcan purposefully ignored her, keeping his eyes on the circus-goers. Performing as he normally would have.

But when he finally looked back, she was gone.

And so he made excuses, shooed the remaining attendees, and entered Marion’s dark tent.

She barely spared a glance at his bare chest before matter-of-factly telling him, “Molly will be begging you to stay, you realize.”

“Is that your professional prediction?” He slid into the seat across from her, noting the way her eyes narrowed.

“Did you sell your shirt, too?”

“Got ten coppers from a farmer’s wife for it.”

He held back a satisfied grin as he watched her scowl. “That’s disgusting.”

“Money is money. I suppose you don’t need to worry about it, with all the gold you’ve got stashed.”

“You’re in a rare good mood.” Dark met dark, and Lorcan stifled an impressed shudder as Marion’s eyes bore into his.

“Having two women and one man offer a spot in their beds tonight will do that to a person.”

“Then why are you here?”

He looked around the dingy tent, noting the hanging ornaments, the woven rug—and leaned forward. “Wouldn’t it ruin your ruse if I slipped off into the night with someone else? You’d be expected to throw me out on my ass—to be heartbroken and raging for the rest of your time here.”

“You might as well enjoy yourself. You’re going to leave soon anyway.”

“So are you.”

He watched as she fidgeted, her fingers knocking against the table. “What is it?” He demanded.

“Nothing.”

It was anything but. He could barely guess what was swirling in that head of hers: whether it was about what had been done to her at Morath, or her imprisonment at the hands of her uncle for years before that— “Marion.”

She looked up at him.

“You had plenty of young men unable to stop staring at you tonight. Why not have some fun with them?”

“Why?” She snapped, too bitter, too guarded for his comfort.

He could feel anger boil up inside of him at his thoughts. But he controlled it, and his next words were controlled. “When you were in Morath, did someone—”

“—no. No—it didn’t get that far.” Her hands came up to grip her arms, as if caging herself in self-protection. “I’ve never been with a man. Never had the chance or interest.”

“Do you prefer women?”

“No—I don’t think so. I don’t know what I prefer. Again, I’ve never . . . I’ve never had the opportunity to feel . . . that.” She cut herself off.

“Why?” Lorcan’s eyes roved over her face. At her scarlet lips and guarded expression. Her body was oh so close, despite the table between them. And he couldn’t deny that he felt something burning between them—at the way her curves had become more defined over their stay with the circus. At the way she never seemed afraid of him, despite his best attempts. He longed to take her fully, to wash away those sullied memories of physical attraction.

She opened her exquisite mouth to answer, but the screaming cut her off.

Both their heads snapped towards the tent entrance, now flapping wildly from the commotion outside.

 

~*~

 

“LORCAN!” Anneith let out a snarl as she heard her husband screaming from the other room. She buried her face in her pillow, growling prayers to the Great Goddess for him to _shut the fuck up_. “YOU HORNY IDIOT! STOP OGLING ELIDE!”

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Anneith muttered to herself as she padded out of their bedroom and into the sitting room, where she saw Hellas staring at their scions through a portal. “YOU HAVE A JOB TO DO!”

He only turned when he felt a pillow slam into his head. “Oh. Hello, love. Why are you out of bed?”

“I am out of bed,” Anneith said through gritted teeth, advancing with another pillow in her hand, “because you are out here, screaming infernal nonsense.”

At least he had the decency to look halfway apologetic. “Don’t you want to—”

“—no.” Now she was directly in front of him, pillow gripped in her fist. She may have come up to his chest, but the anger that she exuded was enough to make Farnor cower.

Hellas, however, was idiotically unafraid of her, and tucked an arm around her. She struggled against his grip, letting out a frustrated snarl when she couldn’t. “Hellas!”

He merely picked her up and set them both down on a nearby sofa. “Shh. Just watch.”

 

~*~

 

Elide held back a sob as she was escorted towards the door. To be so foolish, to let herd herself into captivity. Back into Vernon’s arms, back into the prison of the man who had driven everything good out of her life.

No. She would, no longer. No more.

She would suffer no more among the reek of the ilken, among her uncle’s foul stench of torture and pain.

If she could get to her uncle’s knife, strapped so conveniently at his side—

 _No,_ that same ancient voice at the back of her head pleaded. _No._

Her feet shuffled her forward into the open air, and she saw the box. A coffin, by all standards. To trap her. To fly her back to Morath. But for the ilken to put her in, they’d have to let her go. For a moment, but it would be enough.

Her chest constricted as she let out a desperate sob. She would die here, one way or another, in the custody of these monsters and a man that was worse than them. She would never meet her queen, never avenge her family, never feel the sunlight on her face again, or see her country reborn.

 _No,_ the voice begged her, repeatedly. _No, no, no._

The ilken behind her slammed her forward, an action meant to propel her into the box. Instead, Elide shifted, slamming her face into the metal rim. She could almost hear the bone crunch under the impact, but she had no time to contemplate it as she spun on her uncle and snatched the blade from his side. Fingers around the hilt, mind clear, she angled the blade towards herself, and—

A hard, dense object slammed into her wrist and sent both her and the blade flying. A cry unleashed itself from her throat as she scrambled for it. If she lost her chance now, she would not have another.

But just as she stretched for it, she felt the thud of something land somewhere in the courtyard. She didn’t have to turn around to know that it was Lorcan.

And so, heart in her stomach, mind in her palms, she sprinted out of the courtyard as fast as she could. A narrow alley separated her from the main road, and she went straight for it. Not to escape.

For the hatchet.

Even if she was going to die like she had planned, she would die with a weapon in her hands, next to a warrior that had more than half a fighting chance of killing her uncle.

Her fingers closed around the weapon, and she ran back into the thick of the fighting. Her head whipped from side to side, assessing the condition of the fight. And she saw her chance when she slammed the blade into one distracted ilken’s wings. It screeched—and stopped screeching when Elide drove the blade into it once more and severed its head clean off.

She saw the last untouched ilken, eyes wide at the slaughter of its siblings, hurtling towards her uncle.

 _No!_ It was not just Elide who was screaming in her mind this time; Anneith had joined, her voice no longer soft and desperate, but battle-hardened and hungry for vengeance. She hefted the hatchet, preparing to attack—when the ilken grabbed Vernon up in its arms and flew them both away.

She let out an acrimonious cry, a nearly inhuman sound—and launched the hatchet anyway. One inch, one measly inch closer, and she would have been able to bring her tormentors down. Her eyes marked its trajectory down, down, down—and its shriek against the cobbles as it skidded on the road. Right next to the last remaining ilken, whose wing was shredded beyond repair, courtesy of Lorcan.

There was no longer fear in her veins. No.

Only anger, pure, fiery anger as she advanced on the broken beast, hatchet in hand. She nearly laughed, a madwoman’s laugh, as it attempted to claw at her. She stomped on its ragged wing in return, its scream of pain music to her blood.

“I want Erawan to know,” she whispered, low and deadly. “That the next time he sends you after me like a pack of dogs, I’ll return the favor.” She leaned closer. “I want Erawan to know that the next time I see him, I will carve Manon’s name on his gods-damned heart.” She could feel the tears dripping down her cheeks, but they were of no consequence. Not when she had the ilken at her mercy, at the point of her axe.

“But it seems like tonight isn’t really your night,” mused Elide. She could barely hear anything over the roaring of her ears as she lifted the hatchet over one shoulder. “Because it takes only one to deliver a message. And your companions are already on their way.”

The weapon thudded down, clean through the monster’s neck as she savored the sight, scarlet blood and ivory bone exposed for the world to see.

 

~*~

 

It was Hellas’s turn to have his ears bleed.

“That is my scion!” His wife shouted next to him, her arms waving wildly. “That is _my_ scion! That is my girl.” She suddenly turned her intense gaze upon him, wild with delight. “DO YOU HEAR THAT? MY SCION IS BETTER THAN YOURS.”

“Weeell, I wouldn’t say that—”

“—shhshh.” Anneith pressed her entire palm against his mouth, stifling his words. “Shhhshsh. Don’t say a word. Let me have this.”

He chuckled as she launched herself off of the sofa, screaming wildly in triumph.

 

~*~

 

Lorcan didn’t object when Elide settled beside him underneath the crumbling roof of the hall.

It was easy to ignore the strange buzzes and roars that occasionally disturbed the silence of the marsh. Especially when he had faced much larger, much more dangerous creatures. But he felt Elide’s uneasiness every time a strange noise dug itself out of the thick air.

“Sleep, Elide.”

“What was that?”

“One of the beasts,” he replied, although he wasn’t sure. “Either a mating call or territorial warning.”

A pause before Elide broke the silence once more. “Tell me about her. Your queen.”

He stopped himself from expressing any surprise on his face, although she would never see it. Although this entire trip had been centered around protecting Maeve, preventing Whitethorn and his bitch-queen from striking at her—he hadn’t thought about her in a long while. “I doubt it’ll help you sleep any better.”

She turned to face him, and he could see her luminous brown eyes gleaming in the corner of his eye. “Will she truly kill you for what you’ve done?”

He nodded, slowly.

“And yet you risk it—for her sake.” He watched carefully as she brought herself up, resting her heavy head on a closed fist. “Do you love her?”

“I have been in love with Maeve since I first laid eyes on her.”

“Are you—are you her lover?” There was tentativeness in those words, a slow sort of hesitation.

“No.” He kept himself from thinking of that memory. It did not matter now. “I offered once. She laughed at me for the insolence. So I have made myself invaluable in other ways.” Lorcan could not help himself as his gaze traveled south, landing on Elide’s beautiful mouth.

“Perhaps she uses her love to your own advantage. Perhaps it’s in her best interest to drag you along. Maybe she’ll change her mind when you seem the most likely to . . . leave.” Such daring words, those. Although he would expect no less from a woman who had single-handedly taken on a group of ilken.

“I am blood-sworn to her.” The words rang in his chest, proud but with a strange after-vibration, as if the tone of the phrase had changed. “I will never leave.”

Elide seemed to look down at his words, eyes clouded with conflicting emotion. “Then she can rest assured knowing you’ll pine after her for eternity.”

Her words cut him, despite himself. She realized it as well, as she tilted her head up towards the night sky, too quick to be casual. His hand shot out by instinct, tipping her chin towards him instead. Her eyes were still unreadable, but they held his gaze. As faithfully as they had that first day in Oakwald. “Do not make the mistake of believing me to be a romantic fool—” Whitethorn’s face flashed in his mind “—I do not hold any shred of hope for her.”

“Then that does not seem like love at all.”

He could have laughed at the oddity of it all. Him, stuck in a marsh with by far the strangest and most captivating woman he had ever met. Talking about love when neither of them had known it. “And what do you know of love?” He moved closer.

“I think love should make you happy,” she breathed. “It should make you into the best possible version of yourself.”

“Are you implying I am neither of those things?”

“I don’t think you even know what happiness is.”

And indeed, perhaps he didn’t. The euphoria he felt after battles was not happiness. Neither was waking up in his lovers’ beds, or even, perhaps, serving his queen. The words were out of his mouth before he had time to stop and think about them. “I do not mind . . . being around you.”

The barest of smiles made her lips flicker up, and Lorcan felt warmth bloom in his chest as a soft blush spread across her pale cheeks. “Is that a compliment?”

Despite himself, he felt an answering smile grace his lips. Briefly, he stopped to wonder at the

power of this enchanting creature. To make him feel this way. At peace, at long last.

He froze as her fingers reached towards his lips, and caught his breath when they found their mark. He held still as they traced his mouth, gentle and sloping. Softer than anyone had ever dared, in his entire life. He moved his cheek so that it laid in the cup of her palm. The roughness of it seemed to fade away as her warmth encompassed that small patch of skin. Blessed, blessed, blessed by her touch.

Her thumb stroked his cheekbone, and he stifled a deep shudder. “I would hide you,” she whispered. “In Perranth. If you . . . if you do what you need to do, and need somewhere to go . . . You would have a place there. With me.”

Her gaze was as gentle as her touch, and he suppressed another smile. Another true, luminous smile. “I would be a dishonored male.” He paused, to let those words sink in. For her and for him. “It’d reflect poorly upon you.”

“If anyone thinks that, they would have no place in Perranth.”

Dreamers, the lot of them. Elide and her queen and his former second. Dreamers, first and last. For a home that no longer existed, for a world that had never—and in his eyes—would never exist. But there was nothing dreamy about Elide’s gaze. Only steel certainty. And it was unfair, so deeply unfair that he was against her. That he had to be. “Elide, you need to—”

In an instant, all of his thoughts melted away as Elide drew herself up and pressed her lips against his, her fingers slipping away. It was sweet, and barely there—still shy with inexperience (and he supposed the marsh background didn’t exactly provide for a romantic setting). It was gone as rapidly as it had begun, and the disappearance of her warmth made him tremble.

“You don’t need to answer me now. Or ever. You could show up on my doorstep in ten years, and the offer would still stand. But there is a place for you, in Perranth—if you should ever need or wish for it.”

Would she still offer that place? If she knew exactly what he had done in his life, and all that he planned to do?

He could not contain himself as all those thoughts ran in his mind.

All he could do was lean forward. Close the gap. And press his lips against Elide’s, fully and gently. No less, not for her. He moved from one inlet of her mouth to another, and he felt her hold her breath as he did. One hand reached up to brush her hair out of her face, before it joined the other in moving over the rest of her body—her ribs, her stomach, her hips. He felt her own fingers travel upwards and tangle in his hair, all while the rest of her body joined in the same direction, no stranger to him as it was to her.

He brushed his tongue against her still-closed lips and felt them part for him, delicate and warm. He let out a moan as their tongues met, and his hips buckled into hers instinctively. He held back a growl as her body caressed his in response—and longing. Lorcan’s hand slid down her body once more, fingers gently dipping between her thighs to spread them wider. So that he ease between them. He could feel her panting, her scent thick with want as she ground herself against him more insistently. Lorcan slid his lips from hers, down to her jaw, her neck, and up to her ear, grazing his teeth over the soft cartilage.

“Elide,” he murmured against her skin. “Elide, Elide, Elide.” Her name tasted rich on his tongue, richer than any food he had ever eaten.

Her fingers slid from his cheek to his neck, then under the top of his shirt. They were cool against his skin, and he shuddered at the contact, his hips diving deeper against hers. He could feel her pause, and his eyes snapped upwards, meeting hers. He would make sure. That this was what she wanted. That she was ready, and willing to trust him. His heart beat wildly as she leaned in to kiss him, and he heard the soft beginnings of a whisper of assent before—

 

~*~

 

Hellas and Anneith groaned simultaneously as the ilken interrupted what had promised to be the ultimate confirmation of the Lorcan/Elide couple.

Hellas threw a pillow down in frustration. “Really?”

Anneith settled back into the plush sofa, rubbing at her eyes. This spying-on-their-scions business had stretched on for longer than she had anticipated. “Maybe they’ll make it.”

Her husband turned towards her. “Maybe?”

She shrugged. “Lots of things could happen.”

He wagged a finger in front of her face. “Don’t jinx it.”

Anneith rolled her eyes as she let her head rest on his shoulder. “Promise.”

 

~*~

 

Elide felt like falling to her knees in the sand and drowning in its golden particles.

She felt numb. Number than she had ever felt before. And more hollow than she had ever felt before. Her head spun with what had just happened. Aelin . . . Maeve . . . Rowan . . . the iron coffin.

The iron coffin.

She barely heard herself speak as she relayed what had occurred mere yards away from the rest of them. How their queen had been stolen away right underneath their noses. How—and what—Aelin had sacrificed. For them. For their group, their team, their court—if it could even be called such.

Dead silence as Elide trailed off, tears burning behind her eyes and in her nose. Aelin had gone. For her. Instead of her. She would have taken it, taken everything Cairn planned for her.

And Aelin had known.

And Aelin had protected her instead.

“You knew,” Aedion whirled on the shape-shifter, his eyes wild.

Lysandra replied calmly. And Elide was beginning to see the threads of Aelins’s plan as she spoke. “She asked me—that day on the boat. To help her. She told me the suspected price to banish Erawan and restore the keys. What I needed to do.”

“What could you possibly . . .”

Elide felt faint as she put two and two together. And if Aelin had truly known what Maeve had claimed on the beach . . . then the arrangement was just as painful for the young queen as it was for Lysandra.

“Aelin would die to forge the new Lock to seal the keys into the gate,” said Rowan, sounding dazed. “But no one would know. No one but us. Not while you worse her skin for the rest of your life.”

“But any offspring with Rowan wouldn’t look anything like—

“—you would fix that, Aedion. With—with me.”

“And when were you going to reveal this?” The anger that Elide had expected hadn’t manifested. Only pain. “Before or after I thought I was taking my gods-damned cousin to bed for whatever reason you concocted?”

There was no sign of fear in Lysandra’s eyes as she spoke. “I will not apologize to you. I serve her. And I am willing to spend the rest of my life pretending to be her—” the words burned in Elide’s chest. So long. Lysandra had spent so long in someone else’s skin just to be trapped again. “—so that her sacrifice isn’t in vain—”

“—you can go to hell,” Aedion gasped, anger constricting his breath. “You can go to hell, you lying bitch!”

She could see it now, their group breaking into factions as Rowan silently left Lysandra and Aedion snarling at each other. She still felt ungrounded, floating in some sort of haze. Was this real? Was any of this real? All that she had risked to escape, all that she had paid and fought just to find Aelin again, to see Terrasen as she remembered it in her childhood—

Dark power coiled behind her, and Elide spared no time in turning towards it. Going to meet it.

And she made sure there was no pity, no acceptance, no leeway in her voice as she spoke to the male she had once offered a place to in her home. In her heart. “I hope you spend the rest of your miserable, immortal life suffering. I hope you spend it alone. I hope you live with regret and guilt in your heart and never find a way to endure it.”

Every single word weighed deep on her soul. But as she turned to rejoin Manon, they had never felt so right.

 

~*~

 

Hellas supposed that this was what he got for marrying a goddess of gruesome deaths.

“Why?” She screamed at him, her hands—and fists—pummeling at him. Mostly desperate, but he winced as some found tender places. “WHY?”

Hellas himself was nearly weeping with the effort that it took not to fixate on Lorcan’s actions. Oh, for him and Elide to have come so close—

“WHY IS YOUR FAE WARRIOR SUCH AN IDIOT?” Anneith picked up a stack of papers in her hands and began to slap Hellas’s arm with it.

“Ow, ow, OW, Anneith, please—”

The hitting stopped, and Hellas dared to peek through his fingers at his wife. She sat, perched on the sofa like a queen. Like a dainty queen. It scared him. “Anneith?”

She leaned in close, and he would have appreciated the view of her lovely features if not for the words that she uttered next. “I’m taking Elide. And leaving.”

“No!” He gasped. He felt himself slide off of the cushions, and onto the floor before his wife. “No, please, Anneith, I will do anything—anything—”

His wife sighed. “Stop your crying, Hellas.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You won’t leave me? And Lorcan?”

“I won’t leave _you_. Lorcan is a whole other business altogether.”

“He’ll redeem himself,” Hellas assured her as he climbed onto the sofa once more, tucking his wife close against his chest.

“He better,” muttered Anneith. “Or else I’m actually leaving you. For good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Visit my tumblr for more: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/)


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